


The ink and the itch

by kate_the_reader



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gift, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Tattoos, bingo prize, dreamshare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 16:04:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11809410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: Arthur slowly but surely gets full sleeve tattoos and it's making Eames itch with curiosity.





	The ink and the itch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dandalfthedisco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandalfthedisco/gifts).



> This is part of dandalfthedisco's prize for Inception movie bingo. 
> 
> Hope you like it, disco!
> 
> I can't believe I forgot to thank oceaxe for jumping in to beta this for me, and for prompting me to make it better in a crucial way. Thank you!

The burn as the needle drags through his skin is a surprise, at first. 

They’ve started at his shoulder and he’s been told it hurts more over a bone. It’s not pain, precisely. Arthur knows pain, after all. He relaxes into it, tries to push the buzz into the back of his mind. The buzz is annoying. But the burn, he could get into the burn. 

He’s been thinking about this for a while, sketching ideas in a notebook, researching artists. He had to make an appointment months ago, fitting it around jobs. It took a while to find someone he thought he could trust to execute his design, with its precise lines and angles, its shading and dimensionality. In the end, Arturo had impressed him with his deftness, his own gorgeous ink revealed by the rolled sleeves of his dress shirt, his well-cut trousers and neat waistcoat. And he’d had some ideas of his own, about incorporating references to classical architecture among the mazes and paradoxes Arthur presented him with. He’d created a full sleeve, blending the parts in the notebook into an integrated whole.

Arthur had been ready. He’d been ready for months. Even so, when he came in to start (“Just a few hours, one section this time.”) he had been nervous. It was like doing anything for the first time. Riding a bike, skiing … dreaming — you didn’t know quite what to expect, you hoped you wouldn’t suck at it, wouldn’t embarrass yourself.

As he sits on the stool, shirt off, with Arturo leaning in close, concentrated on the first element of the complex design, he wonders if Eames likes it for the same reasons. 

Does he relish the burn? Does he plan his art to mean something every time? Arthur’s seen bits and pieces of it over the years. In their line of work it’s inevitable, but he’s never had a chance to study it, contemplate it, understand it. 

He drifts slightly, the irritating buzz of the machine almost unheard now beneath the opera Arturo has playing, the feel of his hand, sheathed in black latex, gripping his elbow, pressing on his bicep, the delicious burn etching the crisp lines of this part of the design, all anchoring him only slightly.

When Arturo says: “Okay, that’s it for today”, he’s a bit startled. He cranes to look at it before it gets covered up. His skin is red, but the crisp lines stand out. This section is mostly lines and angles. Arthur loves it, loves seeing his design come alive on his body. He flexes, just to see it move.

“Good?” says Arturo.

“Great!”

He watches as the dressing is taped in place, takes the sheet with aftercare instructions, winces only slightly as his jacket settles on his shoulder.

“See you in … a month?” says Arturo, consulting his appointment book. “Why so long?”

“I’m going out of town on business.”

*

Arthur seems jumpy. Jumpier than he normally is round Eames. He flinches when Goldstein claps him on the shoulder, and it’s not just from a dislike of the man’s over-familiarity. Eames studies him, trying to discern the source of his discomfort. He probably pulled something in the gym.

As the first week runs out, he studies Arthur as much as he dares, more even than usual. Has he developed a twitch in his shoulder? He seems to be flexing it often. Trying to work out the kink of that pulled muscle, perhaps. Should he offer a massage to help ease it? 

He considers that, for a moment. What it would feel like, running his fingertips over the knobs of Arthur’s shoulders, pressing his thumbs into the muscle. What Arthur would sound like, gasping from the slight pain, groaning with relief. What he would look like, tipping his head back slightly.

But no, he can’t do this to himself.

During the second week of the job, which is, thank god, going smoothly and unlikely to overrun, Eames realises that Arthur has worn only dark shirts: chocolate, charcoal, slate blue. He really should not be paying enough attention to notice every detail of a colleague’s wardrobe, but, well, it’s Arthur. He wants you to notice. 

He’s stopped flexing his shoulder, now he’s scratching lightly at it in idle moments, and Eames starts to wonder about another possibility, which is even more vexing and intriguing.

The job, a supremely dull corporate extraction, wraps up before the end of the third week, and Arthur shrugs off his questions about plans, and future jobs. Eames himself has a quick bit of business in Miami, and then, because he has nothing else planned, he heads to New York for some culture, some days at MOMA communing with his favourite paintings. Time in front of their huge sublime red Barnett Newman always clears his head.

He’s not stalking.

*

He saw Eames looking at him with that considering gaze, his piercing focus. Arthur’s good at finding things out, but Eames is good at seeing things. Even hidden things. Arthur isn’t ready to show this. To Eames or anyone else.

“A longer session this time?” says Arturo. “This next part is more complicated, the shading takes a while. It feels different too. I wonder if you’ll like it?”

“The art? Of course, you’ve done a great job.”

“No. The feel.”

He does. The slightly different sensation of the needle Arturo uses to lay down a wash of grey. The feel of the larger areas of black that fill in some of the squares. He can’t really see it while it’s in progress. Arturo doesn’t talk while he’s working. Arthur appreciates that. He bites his lip through some of it, a small distraction. Mostly he relaxes into it, not really thinking.

As he bandages it, Arturo says, “Keep it out of the sun.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “No problem,” he says, putting on his shirt and buttoning the cuffs. The design has reached his elbow, but he could still roll his sleeves up, if he wanted.

Outside, the sun is hot, the streets full of people in summer clothes. Short sleeves showing off muscle — and ink. He’s never been so aware of other people’s art as he is now. He wonders at some of it, admires a well executed design, a full sleeve displayed by a well-fitting tank top. Not that he’d ever … display isn’t the point.

At home, he strips right off, stands in front of the big bathroom mirror. The shoulder is healed. That had been torture, trying to ignore the ache, and then the itch, under Eames’ scrutiny. 

The bandage covering the new section is a stark band of white. He unwraps it, skims his fingers lightly over the complex geometry, the blocks and steps that cascade down his arm. He imagines what it might be like to have another’s fingers skimming, touching. Another's eyes, assessing, admiring.

He covers it up again and sits down at his laptop. Time to start researching the next job. Something quick, so he can get back and get more done. He’s eager for it to be complete. And he already knows he might miss the process.

*

He isn’t stalking, but he can’t help it if he knows things. He really does try to stay away from the part of the city where he knows he might run into Arthur. He even wears a cap and sunglasses as he strolls, just in case. 

The thought of making Arthur uncomfortable is unpleasant. He likes needling him when they’re together, sparking a reaction, but he would hate to spook him with unwanted attention at any other time. He really should leave the city. 

But he doesn’t.

HIs private email, the one known to only a few people in the business, has a message when he gets back to his hotel that afternoon. Eames pours himself a drink before opening it. It’s from Arthur. It’s an odd sensation, reading a mail sent by Arthur in his apartment mere streets away, when Arthur must have pictured him anywhere but here when he wrote it. 

The job is small, apparently simple, and nearby. Montréal, in fact. Eames looks forward to the French feel of the city. Of course he agrees — when has he ever turned Arthur down? Arthur hasn’t said who else might be on the job, but Eames trusts him to choose wisely. He books a flight and packs his bag. It will be better if he arrives a few days early, doesn't run the risk of being on the same flight as Arthur.

In Montréal, another mail tells him where to meet and he arrives at the designated building at the stipulated time mildly curious. It’s always good to start a job, however much he enjoys downtime. It’s a small office in a nondescript building. Very small, in fact.

Arthur is sitting at the desk. There’s a scruffy couch against the wall. Arthur looks up when Eames steps through the door.

“Hi, Eames. Good break?”

“Yeah, fine. You?”

He doesn’t think he imagines the faint blush that spreads across Arthur’s cheekbones, but the light is dimmed by lowered blinds, so he can’t be sure.

“Where’s everyone else?”

“There is no one else. Just you. And me.”

Well, Eames wasn’t expecting that. 

“Oh yes?”

“Sure. It’s a really easy job, why split the payout when we can manage on our own.”

“No one else was available?”

“I didn’t ask.”

It’s the first time Arthur has done this. Eames wonders if it means anything more, but he forces himself not to speculate.

“Very generous, Arthur,” he says. “So, I’ll do the extraction, you’ll do the build?”

“Yes. It’s simple, I’ll just use something generic.”

The office is really grotty, not Arthur’s usual standard at all.

“Shall we get out of here, go for a stroll, get coffee somewhere?” says Eames, gently probing to see if Arthur will let himself be captured by the holiday mood.

“Sure,” he says, getting up and reaching for his jacket. He’s wearing that slate blue shirt again; buttoned at his wrists. A slightly odd choice given the heatwave lying over the city. Eames is wearing his mustard shirt, the open collar revealing a bit of ink. He can see Arthur looking. He steps aside to let him go first, dares to brush the lightest of hands across the small of his back. Arthur looks sideways at him, not quite frowning, and Eames smiles, testing the water. Arthur smiles back. This is going to be a good job.

He’s not been to Montréal before, but he likes the slightly old world feel. It seems Arthur does as well, having found an office right in the heart of the old town. It’s too hot to stroll far, so they stop at a cafe and order coffee — it’s early for a drink. They talk idly about the last job they did together; Goldstein’s merits as an extractor, his failings as a team leader.

“Where did you go afterwards?” asks Arthur.

“Quick job in Miami,” he says.

“Any good?” 

“Forging. Documents.”

“Oh yes?” Arthur has taken off his jacket. He’s rubbing lightly at his bicep, trying to be subtle. He unbuttons his cuffs and folds them back, but doesn't roll his sleeves up, despite the humid heat and the feeling of holiday. It’s frustrating. The way the fine muscles in his forearms shift under his skin is one of Eames’ favourite things to watch when Arthur is absorbed in something and unlikely to notice him looking. Like when he’s doodling in his notebook. Others may think Arthur’s taking detailed notes in that book, but Eames has glanced in it, and it was full of mazes and the paradoxical architecture Arthur loves, rendered in crisp detail in a black fine-liner. Arthur is talented, imaginative. Eames has often wondered why he limits himself to research and organisation. He’s great at that, of course, but he could do so much more. Which is why this job will be fun, just the two of them, multi-tasking. They’ll get it done quickly and smoothly, he’s sure. But does he really want it to be over quickly? Being alone with Arthur is a chance to try and get beneath his defences, and he may not get another chance soon.

“Why limit yourself to something generic?” he says. “Have a go at a full-on build, why don’t you.”

Arthur doesn’t reply right away. Then he says: “Well, it’s tempting, but I have an appointment back home in two weeks that I wouldn’t like to break.”

“Oh, well, quick and dirty it is then.” Eames hopes his disappointment isn’t too obvious.

The sun is starting to slant and Arthur says, “I should … if we’re going to do this quickly, I need to get on.”

“Yes, of course,” says Eames, getting up. “I’m sure you have things for me to be doing too, don’t you?”

They walk back to the office, where Arthur does indeed have a folder for him, well aware of Eames’ preference for paper. Arthur sits down at the desk and picks up a drawing tablet, Eames takes the couch and they work in silence for a while. He’s aware of Arthur’s twitchiness, the way his left hand strays often to his right bicep, but he doesn’t say anything. Finally, he stands up, stretches the crick out of his back and steps over to stand behind Arthur. 

“May I see?” he says.

Arthur leans slightly to his left so Eames can see over his shoulder. The layout he’s drawn is anything but generic. It’s a floor in an office tower, but full of clever blind alleys and hidden exits. 

“Oh, nice!” says Eames, leaning over Arthur’s shoulder. “That’s brilliant, darling!” It slips out. He tries not to say it too often, because it often makes Arthur flinch, but sometimes he can’t stop himself. Arthur glances at him but doesn’t say anything, and his mouth seems to quirk up just a bit.

“Thanks. Not bad for someone with no imagination, eh?”

“You must know I didn’t mean that. It was just something I said. Forgive me for being an arse.”

Arthur shrugs. “Yeah. I like reminding you though.” He leans back to stretch the kinks out of his own back, his arm brushing Eames’ thigh.

“Let’s go and get dinner,” says Eames, “and none of your miserable takeout, please.”

They go to a pleasant small restaurant and split a bottle of wine. It’s not a date, though. 

The job moves smoothly through the preparation phase; Eames handles surveillance. It’s another of the routine corporate jobs that make up the bulk of their work. The mark is unsuspicious and boringly regular in his routine, and Eames spends hours strolling, or sitting in cafés, or in the car he’s hired for the purpose. The city bakes. Arthur, meanwhile, holes up in the horrible cramped office perfecting his layouts. 

Eames climbs the stairs balancing two iced coffees and a bag of doughnuts. “Time for a break,” he announces as he opens the door with his elbow. The office is stifling, and Arthur has his shirt unbuttoned at the neck, sleeves rolled to the elbow. It’s more skin than he’s revealed all week.

“Why Arthur, you’re practically naked!” Eames regrets it as soon as he says it, because Arthur flushes and tweaks his sleeves, shooting Eames an annoyed look. “Don’t be cross, darling! It’s too hot. I’m sure the layout is perfect by now, and I’ve got all I'm going to get from Mr Boring. Come out of this fetid hole.”

“Fetid hole? Oh my god Eames, it’s just an office.” But Arthur’s laughing, leaning back in his chair. “Okay,” he says, “I’ll come out. Where?”

“The beach?” says Eames. “Let’s go swimming!” 

“Did you bring a swimsuit? I didn’t. And I'm not going swimming anyway.” 

Eames must look crestfallen, because Arthur says, “I'll come to the beach with you, though. You can swim.” And he looks Eames up and down. “I’ll watch from under an umbrella.” 

“Not dressed like that, you won’t,” says Eames, and Arthur looks down at his tailored trousers and shrugs. 

“I’ve got others.” He stands up and stretches his arms above his head, his sleeves bunching a bit, but he drops them before Eames can be certain he’s seen anything. Or that there’s even anything to see.

Arthur grabs one of the coffees and starts for the door, leaving Eames to scramble after him, the doughnuts forgotten on the desk. Their hotel is nearby, the rental car in its garage.

“Meet you back in the lobby in ten?” says Arthur, as they step out of the elevator.

Eames bought a swimsuit as soon as he realised Montréal has beaches. He loves the beach. He heads back to the lobby just in time to see Arthur step out of the other elevator. He’s wearing pale trousers and a crisp white linen shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He meets Eames’ frank gaze with a hint of challenge in his eyes, taking in his board shorts and flamingo-patterned shirt. 

“Very … cool,” says Eames.

Arthur arches an eyebrow. “You too.”

Eames drives with the window down, the breeze warm on his bare arms and legs. He wishes he could get a good look at Arthur's right arm, at the shadow revealed by the thin white fabric.

At the beach, Arthur sits at a picnic table on the grass. “Go swim, Eames.”

Eames has never stripped off in front of Arthur, but he pulls the silly shirt over his head and drops it on the bench, not looking to see his reaction, and heads for the water. The sand is warm under his feet and the water is clear and cool as he wades out until it’s deep enough to swim. As he turns for the beach he looks up and sees Arthur staring straight at him. He could wave, but he doesn’t. Arthur’s still staring as he walks back up the beach. He looks away when Eames sits down and pushes his wet hair off his face. The breeze off the water is molding his shirt to his body. Eames drags his eyes away.

The heatwave breaks that evening and the next day is damp and cool. Arthur once again has his shirt sleeves buttoned at his wrists. 

Eames goes under to try the dreamscape, which proves to be just what was promised by Arthur’s drawings: elegant and clever. More than the job deserves, really. 

They schedule a late-afternoon appointment with the man; they’re going to get him under the simple way: lock his office door and surprise him, leave him there to recover when they walk out after everyone else has gone for the day. It’s laughably easy, the information Eames has come for isn’t even in a safe, just in a drawer with an easy-to-force lock.

As they pack their things in the stuffy office afterwards, Arthur says: “Where are you off to next?”

“Haven’t been to LA in a while. You?”

“Home,” says Arthur. “I’ve got a thing.”

“So you said.” Arthur has never said where “home” is. Eames knows, of course, but this seems like a clue, a dropped breadcrumb. Arthur’s looking at him with a hint of challenge, as he has been all through this job. 

*

“Can you do the rest this week?”

“Yeah, sure,” says Arturo, “if you’re up for that. Two long sessions.”

“I might not be back in the city for a while.”

He’s been looking forward to this the entire time in Montréal.

“Oh, and can you add one thing?” 

He describes the addition he wants; Arturo nods. “That’ll work,” he says. 

The part of the design on his forearm is the most complex — mazes morphing into grids into Escher birds, and on his inner arm, a medieval church labyrinth. As it emerges, he imagines tracing its path. Someone tracing its path. 

Mostly, he floats in a blissful haze of sensation as Arturo works. He’s got Bach playing this time, drowning the noise. The long session extends into the evening.

“We’ll finish on Wednesday,” says Arturo as Arthur puts his shirt back on. The evening is warm, he doesn’t wear his jacket as he walks home, slowly drifting down from the endorphin high.

The red thread Arturo adds on Wednesday twists around his arm, tying the whole thing together, terminating in the element Arthur asked for at the last moment. Finished. He’ll miss the needle, though. 

What’s next now he has it — dare he use it?

*

The email is two words long: “New York.”

*

Eames gets a cab into the city, giving the address he’s never been told but he knows he’s expected to go to. 

He presses the buzzer: “I’m here”, and Arthur says, no hint of surprise in his voice: “Come up.”

As he emerges at the top of the third flight of stairs, Arthur is standing in an open door. He’s wearing a t-shirt, his right arm curled up, hand scratching the back of his head. Challenge in his eyes. “Hello, Eames.”

He’s imagined this, ever since he was sure what Arthur was up to, but he hasn’t imagined _this_. “Hello, Arthur.” 

He drops his arm and turns to lead Eames into his apartment, giving him a chance to study the design, what he can see of it.

“Coffee?” says Arthur, reaching into a cabinet over the counter in the small kitchen area. Eames can only nod, transfixed by the play of ink as he stretches up. “Good flight?” Arthur looks over his shoulder as he fills an espresso pot.

“Yeah.” Angling for a glimpse of the design on his inner arm. “Fuck it, Arthur! Let me see properly. I can’t talk about banalities.”

Arthur steps out to where Eames is standing, his eyes filled with wickedness. “Oh yes, Eames?” He extends his arm, palm up, revealing a labyrinth. Eames catches his wrist, looks up to make certain he’s allowed, traces its complex path with his forefinger.

“Yes.” His mouth is dry, he has to clear his throat. “I realised what you were doing, but I had no idea …”

Arthur is grinning. “It was fun, seeing you work it out.”

“Fun …” He skims his fingers over the complexities of the design, up and around Arthur’s arm, following the red thread that binds it together, becoming aware of a tremor. He looks up. Arthur’s eyes are very dark, almost black, intent on Eames. He slips his hand under the hem of the t-shirt sleeve, and closes his hand on the knob of Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur swallows audibly.

Eames pushes the sleeve further up, so he can see the top of the design. The red thread is held by a bird just like the ones he has on his collar bone.

He can’t stop himself. He drops his mouth to it. “Arthur …” he murmurs.


End file.
